Into the mist...

Once again, I'm having to catch up with the photos and mini-poems. I guess that is a good thing, as it indicates that I'm busy, right? Or lazy. I have to admit, it's been a lazy weekend. Misty, cold, gloomy--good days to stay in bed or curl up with a good book. I have, however, been busy--painting, mostly, trying to finish a commissioned portrait.  Even though I haven't been posting them, I have taken a photo each day and managed to write a few lines that may or may not one day become a longer poem.  So the photo on the right is today's photo--my neighbor's barn, surrounded by the morning's mist.  And the poem for today: 

Mist slinks over the hill

wraps around the magnolia and pin oaks,

a thin shawl against the morning chill.



          

 The next photo on the left is a work-in-progress.  A mini painting of two little corgi pups.  Not the best photograph, and obviously the painting isn't finished.  I'm hoping to finish it today.  This is Saturday's photo and below is the poem for Saturday: 

Cows low in the distance

Chorus for the train whistle--

Midnight to Georgia

or Hank Williams' restless ghost.

Friday's photograph is of the latest addition to our family: Gracie.  Gracie was a little kitten born on the grounds of the correctional facility where I work.  Her mom disappeared, and Gracie started hanging out at the warehouse.  We fed her, as did the inmates that worked there. For a long time she wouldn't come near anyone, but we managed to coax her into a crate one day, and I brought her home.  She's now my studio cat, along with Eddie and another stray, Casper.  And here's Friday's poem:

She escaped from prison

an inside job

no one objected

no parole or probation

only freedom.

And finally, the photo for Thursday (below) is of my art student with her self-portrait.  It took awhile, but she finally finished it and I'm so proud of her!  And to shamelessly promote myself, the paintings on the wall behind her are mine. 

 

And here's the poem for Thursday: 

A mockingbird in the flower pot

gives me a nasty look,

as if I have intruded on a private moment--

or caught him up to no good.